Against Predestination

Lacunas in clouds where the city peeks through,
I’ve got a God’s-eye-view from this plane.
I’m an atheist because the beauty is better
when I think I’ve seen it by chance:

Spanish moss,
a man blowing his soul through his trombone,
Christmas Eve in New Orleans: fireworks and
bonfires on the levee: smoke and
sparks swimming out like minnows.
Marlboro packs burnt into black roses.

I’m an atheist because it’s funnier
when I think I shouldn’t laugh:
Jackson Square where people get palm readings under palm trees,
janitors find wads of cash on the street, wheel chairs are decked out like
Harleys, pigeons peck crumbs out of cracks in the ground,
and I hear ship horns, French horns and saxophones.

Somewhere I’m Dead Looking Down At My Still Alive Self

So you’ve got a stone in your soul?
Walk long enough, you’re bound to
get a pebble in your shoe.

Unforget
scent of pine, feel
of flattened pinecone,
how drizzle in the puddle makes it bubble.
Something’s brewing.

Icicles are jail bars. They melt off the walls.
Snow retreats from the field.
Some people

annoy you for no reason:
the man who clears his throat on the bus,
the girl who reminds you of Splenda
in tea you like black.
Pick a flower. Slip it under her door.
Trust me.